


When You Get Home Tonight

by smellyleaf



Category: Olympics RPF
Genre: Dinner, M/M, One Shot, Phlochte - Freeform, smellyleaf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-10 23:33:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smellyleaf/pseuds/smellyleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael Phelps gets ready to go on a date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Get Home Tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agape_eternal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agape_eternal/gifts).



> I really like this, so I hope everyone else does too! This is my first work i'm moving over here, hopefully I'll get Dive up here soon!

For Michael Phelps, it's an old ritual.

He comes home from the club around 3:00 PM, and the first thing he does is kick off his sneakers. He sheds the layers as he walks through the house.

First his Adidas polo, the one with the gray stripes. He throws it onto the back of the couch because he wants to order some more and he needs to remember to do that when he gets home tonight.

Next, his Under Armour belt, which he drapes on the handle of his bedroom door so that he can find it tomorrow.

Finally, his Calvin Klein khakis and boxers, which he pushes down in one motion and steps out of. One sock comes out in the pants leg, but he has to pull the other one off himself, and he leaves it all in a crumpled pile on the floor. He'll have to put it all in the hamper when he gets home tonight.

He plugs his iPod into the speakers and he takes a shower. He shaves his chest an his stomach and below, because old habits die hard. He thinks about jacking off but then he doesn't really want to, so he gets out.

The tiles are cold on his feet, and he thinks for the hundredth time that he needs to buy a rug to put on the floor in here. Then he grabs his towel and wipes a gap in the steam on the mirror before wrapping it around his waist.

He studies his face and decides that his beard is uneven. Then he spends half an hour fixing it, meticulously trimming around the edges with his detail shaver.

Next are his fingernails, which he cuts over the toilet so that he can flush the trimmings. After that, he's finally ready to get dressed.

On his bed is a sit he had dry-cleaned yesterday, that he picked up on his lunch break and left here for tonight. He goes to his closet and deliberates over shirts and ties, tries to think fashionably. He settles on a black and white checkered shirt and a red tie, because the suit is dark black and he wants to look like he made an effort.

He has a pair of Dolce & Gabbana red leather dress shoes from a season ago, but he's never even worn them. They were a gift, from a certain someone, and he's never felt like he could pull them off. He picks out a plain black Dior pair instead, because it's safer and because they're already broken in.

He gets dressed slowly, taking great pains to make sure his buttons line up correctly and that his tie is tied perfectly. He puts his glasses on and then he takes them off and then he repeats that two more times before he decides to leave them at home.

He tucks his wallet and his phone and his keys into his pockets and turns his iPod off. Then he leaves the house, at just past 5:30 PM, and he has to triple check to make sure the front door is locked because he's so excited and nervous, even though it's stupid.

Traffic is terrible and he keeps checking his phone on the way, because he's scared he's going to be late. The restaurant is a trendy one, and he circles the block twice before he finds a good parking spot. Then he pats his pocket, making sure he has his wallet, and gets out and walks the half-block back to the front doors. He rolls his shoulders back and he goes inside and he tells himself not to worry.

"Name?" The maitre de asks.

"Phelps," He says, and he knows he called three times for this reservation and he's going to be pissed if they didn't write him down right.

The maitre de checks the list and then he smiles, "Table for two, right this way."

Michael follows him through the main floor to his table. It's a cozy one by the window, and he nods when the maitre de asks if it's suitable and then he's finally alone and he can relax just a little.

The waiter comes, and he suggests a red wine and Michael accepts it. The taste is strong, and not exactly pleasant for the price, but he drinks two glasses. His phone lays on the table by the fork, and he can't help staring at it as he waits, wondering what's taking so long. The table cloth is thick cotton. He runs his fingers over it again and again and again and he stares at the phone.

Then finally it rings, and he's so relieved. He smiles hugely and he picks it up and he answers it and he feels like his heart is jumping up and down somewhere around his neck area.

"You're late," He says into the phone, but he can't help but laugh because the breathing he hears on the other side is so goddamn beautiful.

"I know," Ryan Lochte says, "I couldn't decide what to wear."

Michael closes his eyes, "Well? What did you decide?" He smiles, "Not the Versace again, please."

"The Versace is my favorite, don't hate, man." Ryan laughs, deep and throaty and wonderful. Michael swallows heavily and he hopes Ryan can't hear it through the phone. Then Ryan is saying, "It's Armani. It's plum and so is my tie."

"Plum," Michael mocks, and he's grinning like a dumbass, "You're such a chick. It's purple."

"PLUM," Ryan insists. There is a sound of a menu being flipped through, "What are you gonna get?"

Michael leans his head to one side, propping the phone between his shoulder and his ear, and reaches for his own menu. He glances down it, "The poulet à la fermière."

Ryan's voice says he is rolling his eyes, shaking his head, "You ALWAYS get the chicken. Boring."

Michael sets the menu down, "What about you?"

"Steak povre or whatever," His pronunciation is terrible, "Gotta have some red meat, I'm starving."

"Yeah?"

"We've been filming all fucking day, dude. It's a nightmare. You been watching it?"

Michael winces, "Yeah. . ." Truth is, he's only seen two episodes, and he hated both of them. They make Ryan look so stupid. He doesn't want to talk about What Would Ryan Lochte Do, though, so he breezes right over that, thinking he'll just Youtube it when he gets home tonight and catch up, "Did you see the pictures from Tuesday?"

"Yeah. McMurry better lay off," Ryan jokes.

Michael smiles, "She's not like that."

The waiter appears, and Michael takes a moment to order. Then he lifts the phone back up.

"I did alright. I'm getting better."

He can hear Ryan's grin, "No more throwing clubs? Oh, hold on." He orders his food in the background, fumbling over the french, and then he's back, "Alright."

"I miss you," Michael blurts, and then he lifts his glass and takes a long drink of his wine because he's not the sentimental type.

"I miss you, too, man," Ryan says easily, "Especially now, when everything is so shitty down here. The whole family hates the show, they're pissed. Devon's talking about changing his name legally."

"Ouch."

"He doesn't mean it. I dunno man, I wish I hadn't agreed to do this." He sighs, "What do you think?"

Michael winces, "Honestly?"

"Honestly."

He takes a deep breath, ". . . I hate it so much, Ry."

Ryan hisses out air through his teeth and doesn't speak.

"I mean," Michael rushes in, trying to explain himself, "They're playing you for this idiot, Ry. You're better than that. You deserve better than that. I mean, that shit about not even knowing how many medals you have? What the fuck was that?"

"The producer said it would be funny to the fans."

"Yeah. A bunch of fans who apparently think you're an idiot. You don't need that, man."

"I guess."

Michael hears the sound of steak au poivre being set down in front of Ryan 800 miles away and he grips the material of his suit pants tightly in his fist and closes his eyes.

Ryan has been talking, and he pauses to ask, "You there?"

Michael snaps back into it, "Yes. Sorry."

"Anyway, I was thinking I'd opt out for a second season-"

\- - -

Michael has been lingering over his empty plate for half an hour, and the bottle of wine is empty on the table in front of him.

The waiter subtly lays the check near his arm and he slips his credit card into the envelope and hands it back. He draws everything out as long as he possibly can and then finally he's signed the receipt and the dishes have been picked up and it's time to leave.

"Did you pay?" Ryan asks.

"Yeah."

"Don't forget to tip," He adds, and Michael is grateful because he nearly forgot. He lays a twenty on the table and stands up and walks across the restaurant and out the door.

Twilight has fallen outside and the world is beautiful and velvety with darkness. His leather shoes slap on the sidewalk as he walks to his car, and he hears the ding of Ryan's door unlocker across the line as Ryan does the same thing.

"Are you good to drive?" Michael asks.

"Yeah, dude. Duh."

Michael gets into his car and closes the door and leans his head down against the wheel, "Alright. Well, drive safe."

"Yeah. You too."

He pauses then, hesitates before hanging up. His throat fills and he clears it to keep from sounding thick and sad, and he thinks of Ryan in his car 800 miles away from Baltimore, in a purple suit with a purple tie, and his chest aches.

"I miss you too, Mikey," Ryan says, like he can read minds, "Call me when you get home tonight."

And Michael has to clear his throat again to answer, but it's okay because he's not upset he's congested, and Ryan knows and understands that. He says he will and they hang up and finally he's alone in his car, with his head on the steering wheel and his hand clutching his chest right where the pain is.

"I love you," He says to the empty seat beside him, and then he starts the car and he drives.


End file.
